


they would drown

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Kingdomstuck, M/M, Swordfighting, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 22:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15543162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: prince and princes don't mix but they do when they don't, or they can't, so they won't(but they'll want to, they'll want to, oh how they'll want to, they'll want to all the same)





	they would drown

**Author's Note:**

> so this one time I had to report a bunch of posts on this one site and I knew some of the admins handling the case were homestuck fans so after the first thirty I started writing them a homestuck fic in the reports instead of actual words
> 
> about half of this fic was written via reports and the other half I kinda just whipped out while spamming Believer on repeat it just Be Like That sometimes
> 
>  
> 
> this is a spiritual successor/sequel to the _The Royal Approach_ , that one eridirk chapter in that one massive fic collation I still need to update, "Belatedly Yours, HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills".
> 
>  
> 
> p.s. dragoneisha I have the feeling this is Exactly your kind of jam

The worst part about having to learn swordsmanship from someone as competent as your tutor was that there was absolutely no end to the potential smug quotient. In fact, you were pretty fucking certain the smug quotient increased exponentially with every lesson you had, which made matters all the worse.

Besides, it wasn't like swords were your forte. Your early training and your specialty were all focused around other sorts of weapons. Swords were an afterthought, at best.

Not that your fucking swordsmanship tutor seemed to care about _that_. No, the smug bastard only asked—repeatedly—if you'd practiced that day, if you'd made any progress with your drill, and hey, had you managed to correct that issue you'd had with your footing last week?

 _Bastard_.

Someday, someday  _soon_ , you were going to kick his smug, stupid, condescending  _ass_.

Once you got over all the godsdamn bruises he kept leaving over  _yours_ , of course.

 

It probably wouldn't have been half so bad if he hadn't seemed to get some stupid amount of satisfaction out of it. But he did, and therefore, you completely, utterly, and  _fully_  despised him.

And on top of that, he had the nerve to be  _hot_.

Dirk Strider. The complete and utter bane of your existence, in every sense of the term. You would give  _anything_  to knock him down a peg or two.

 

Your da's weird insistence on "only the best of the best for Amporas" (especially so after the assassination attempt on you) had led to him recruiting another prince from a neighboring kingdom to teach you.

Dirk Strider.

You still weren't sure why you hadn't told your da that he was the assassin who'd made the attempt. But then, you weren't sure why he'd decided not to follow through, after you'd narrowly beaten him. You had a few theories on why he'd taken the posting, but you weren't too keen to test any of them out.

 

Yet.

 

* * *

 

The morning of your next lesson dawned bright and fine, and you headed down to the training courts with something almost approaching a spring in your step. You weren't going to let a jackass like Strider ruin such perfect weather for you, and you'd already made plans for a jaunt through the city after your tenure in hell was over.

When you arrive, Strider is already dressed for training and pacing the courts, murmuring to himself as he measures out the markings he'd placed down. You're torn between interrupting him and completing your own preparations for the lesson, and after a moment's deliberation, the latter wins out.

Ignoring him completely, you head off to get ready. When you get back, he seems to be done, and he blinks up at you, as if he's startled by your arrival.

"Your highness," he says, inclining his head slightly.

The fact that he didn't seem to notice you ignoring him is an insult past what you've given him, and you do your best not to bristle at his deliberately polite tone.  _Bastard_. “Strider.”

You've learned to read him a little bit better, over the past few months, and you know that the mild look he gives you is one of his biggest tells: he's amused, and taunting you with his attitude. "Nice morning, isn't it?" His tone is as bland as his expression. You've decided that you'd like to break his nose.

"I suppose," you reply, deciding to play his game. If he thinks he's going to get away with  _any_  of this, he's quickly going to learn just how wrong he is.

Strider nods at the markings on the ground, drawing your attention to them. They don't seem to be the standard outline of a sparring court, and you frown, trying to puzzle out their meaning. Perhaps he's decided to show you some of the standards of his own kingdom? It's about the only sensible explanation you can come up with at the moment, and you glance up at him, waiting for further information.

The flicker of amusement that passes over his face is so slight that you could convince yourself you'd imagined it, if you hadn't spent the past several weeks learning everything you could about this man. Immediately, you bristle up, and his amusement only seems to grow. You're going to throw this bastard off a balcony, see if you don't.

"It's a pattern technique I've been working on as of late. Would you like to give it a try?"

You blink, brought up short. Okay. That's new. He's never actually let you try out any of his own moves yet, and you've admittedly been more than a little curious. "I suppose," you say, balancing curiosity out with caution before it gets you killed. You're not a cat, after all, and you'd much prefer not to risk the nine lives you don't have.

 

For whatever reasons, your answer seems to please him, and he steps back into position— _ah_. With him standing where he is, you can see the marked path that he wants you to take, clear as day. It's a graceful, sweeping sort of thing, and he runs through the footwork as you watch, hands empty of a sword, in a way that calls to mind the automatons your wixes magic up.

(you wouldn't say it to his face, but you're pretty certain he's half automaton himself.)

"Your turn," he says, and his expression turns the mild words into a challenge you could never refuse.

You take his place on the markings and follow them through, exactly as he had. Even without a mirror, you know what you look like: fluid grace expected of every Ampora; power the shape of a barely restrained storm in every movement. You are, always, what you were made to be.

(it makes you wonder what he was made for.)

"Not bad," he says, and you realize that his attention has been on you this entire time. Something in you shivers; something in you burns.

Instead, you nod, and step away from the markings. "How would it go with a sword?"

His expression spreads into a grin, and he catches one up for himself—live steel, no training swords on  _this_  court—and tosses one to you. You catch it, easily, and he settles himself back into the shape of the movements, a sword moving like quicksilver as it cut figures into the air.

The sight of it—of  _him_ —burns itself into your mind, much as it had all those nights ago when you'd barely fought him off and sent him running. At the time, you'd thought it had been away from you. Now, you're not so sure.

"Not bad," you say, and he turns to you with eyes like the molten fire of a sunset's heart. "Not bad at all."

**Author's Note:**

> I Might continue this


End file.
